This is pretty much exactly what I feel like right now.

After a morning of more-intense-than-normal Spanish, my brain is fried, sizzled, zapped. I have a pile of emails to write and documents to create, not to mention what feels like 26 blog posts almost boiling over on the back burner of my mind.

I like The Busy, make no mistake, but I can only sit in front of a computer screen and tap out words for so long before my eyes cross and my shoulders seize up. So forgive my lack of blog inspiration.

Or lack of discipline required to force myself to write out the blog inspiration.

Or just my plain old shortcomings in general.

Whatever.

I gotta go make pizza.

Ps. I’ll probably be back tomorrow with some sort of verbage for you to muddle through, but for right now I’ll pretend that I’m one of those bloggers that considers her blog a job and therefore actually doesn’t blog over the weekend because those are her days off. I don’t know what “days off” are, though if my life continues to careen along at the rate it went today, I may need to figure that one out.

On Saturday I made soup.

I was going to tell you about it on Sunday, but I got distracted by church. On Monday I got distracted by the quotidian. And then Tuesday I got distracted by all things lack tay shun. So now it’s Wednesday and even though I’m tempted to get distracted by my mile-long list of things I want to unload here, I am going to buckle down and force myself to write about Saturday Soup.

It was good, that soup was. Even my husband, aka Mr. No Compliments, took one bite and let loose with a loud, “This is good.”

“Of course it is,” I said, my indignation at his surprise—as though the chances of me turning out a tasty soup are slim, thanks a lot, you ungrateful wretch—tempered by a mouthful of riotous flavor fireworks.

The soup is simply a meatless black bean chili bulked up with carrots and sweet potatoes and with a handful of weeds thrown in for flair.

See, while I was a-soup making, the neighbor stopped by and we got to talking about the market produce I can’t identify. She attempted to match names with descriptions, but I remained clueless, so she took a hike around the property and returned with a handful of green, the roots still clumped with dirt.

I tore off the leaves of the purported good-in-soup plants, washed them well, and chopped them into the soup. There wasn’t much of a flavor difference—I had already added a whole pile of fresh cilantro—but the green added good vitamins and (more) pretty green fleckies.

If you have edible weeds in your yard, mince a nice handful up real fine and toss them into the pot. If nothing else, it’s fun to put weeds in soup.

Black Bean and Sweet Potato Chili

1 onion, minced
2 large carrots, peeled, quartered lengthwise, and chopped
1 large sweet potato, peeled and diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons canola oil
3-5 teaspoons chili powder
1 teaspoon cumin
1 quart chicken broth
4 cups cooked black beans, drained
½ cup chopped fresh cilantro
weeds, optional
salt and pepper

Put the onion, chopped carrots, sweet potato, garlic, and oil in a large soup pot. Cook over medium high head until mostly tender, 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Do not brown. Add the chili powder and cumin and stir to combine.

Add the broth and beans and cook until heated through and the flavors have had time to get acquainted, about 10 minutes. Stir in the cilantro and weeds. Taste to correct seasonings and serve. Feel free to condimentize, but we did not.

I made French toast for breakfast, packed lunches (tuna salad with some chopped boiled egg on bakery buns, hacked-up watermelon pieces, plums, and bananas for those that wanted), shooed the chillins out the door, washed dishes, hung up laundry, straightened up, did email, and walked to town where I a) met a goatherd, and b) talked to a bakery saleswoman who pleaded with me to take her to the states.

The goatherd encounter was kinda funny. I was following him through the streets, admiring (wincing at) the one mama goat’s almost-dragging-on-the-ground udders, when I noticed that the guy was carrying a bag of paper cups in one hand and the lead rope in the other. And then I noticed that he was saying something. Specifically: Goat milk for sale!

It kinda gives new meaning to the phrase “fresh milk,” don’t you think?

I caught up to the boy and asked if I could take his photo.

“If you buy some goat milk,” he countered.

“Oh no,” I laughed. “I don’t like goat milk all that much.”

“It’s really good with honey,” he said. Was there a honey bear in his shoulder bag?

I laughed  and made to walk away.

“Okay, you can take my picture anyway,” he said flatly.

So I did.

And then I turned the corner and there was a bakery that I’ve been wanting to photograph.

So I did.
 

The girl, unlike the goatherd, was all sorts of chatty.

At school, I checked out the cookies that aren’t selling. They’re not moldy yet, and people say they like them, but I’m kinda left with no option but to believe they’re just being polite. Because come on, every cook knows that if something is good, you eat it.

I took photos of my husband’s carpentry class.

They are making two tables, via the mortise and tenon method (whatever that is).

My husband fixed the table saw yesterday, so now there’s that.

I made photocopies of tomorrow’s math problems for my baking class (simple fraction reduction), visited with the teachers (there was an interesting discussion on when’s the best age to get married), and made the first inquiries into finding another group of students to tutor. I waited in the library for an appointment with a student who never showed. I attempted to improve my crocheting skills and ended up dropping a bunch of stitches. I planned supper, made to-do lists, and texted my husband.

After a couple hours of Being Present, I caught the bus back to town where I bought two avocados, a flat of eggs, and a bag of bread.

At home, I fixed myself lunch (tuna salad on a bun, a huge, juicy-sweet mango, and some leftover cake and coffee) and settled in for a whole two hours of writing, emailing, work planning, etc.

When the children come home at 2:15, there will be chores, homework, outside playing time, baking experiments, laundry, showers, supper cooking, and bedtime reading…but that hasn’t happened, so I shan’t write about it just yet.

Ps. Speaking of udders and milk: on the bus ride home, I happened to glance out my window and saw a woman. Actually, I didn’t see the woman per say. All I saw was her one enormous breast—nursing baby must of just been detached and shirt not yet pulled back down—dripping milk. I saw the white droplets falling to the ground. Now don’t you wish I had a photo of that?

Thursday Morning Update
My husband just phoned.

Him: “There’s a honey bear in his bag!”

Me: “Huh?”

Him (giddily): “The goatherd! He’s here! He has a honey bear!”

Me (incredulous, because he’s lactose intolerant): “You bought some?!”

Him: “No, but the bus driver did! The goatherd squirted honey into a cup and then milked straight into the cup! It was frothy and everything! You should buy some milk just to see it!”

Maybe I will. Guess I better pack my camera…